


8:23 from Hamamatsu

by Midnight_Run



Series: Two Lies and One Truth [1]
Category: Persona 5
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Fix-It of Sorts, For Want of a Nail, M/M, Other, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-07
Updated: 2017-07-07
Packaged: 2018-11-14 03:35:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11199648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Midnight_Run/pseuds/Midnight_Run
Summary: In which Kurusu Akira catches a train to Tokyo a day earlier and changes everything that might have followed after.





	8:23 from Hamamatsu

**Author's Note:**

> I realize this technically occurs pre-game/post-game, but you should still have probably finished the game before you read this. Character spoilers abound. 
> 
> Does the world really need another Fix-It AU with a healthy side of 'remind me why Akira can't date boys again?' Probably not, but it's gonna get one anyway because I'm not ready to be done with Persona 5 just yet. -.-

_“Anyway, there’s a time and place for everything, and while this may have been the place, it wasn’t the time.”_  
― Jack Finney, Invasion of the Body Snatchers

+++

He’d left almost as soon as he’d arrived.

Just shoved his new uniform, a few pairs of socks and boxers and his toothbrush into his new school bag and slipped out the back of their darkened house before his parents returned.

There wasn’t really any reason to stay.

Whatever goodbyes they would have said would have been stiff and perfunctory, nothing more than his father’s heavy hand against his shoulder, his mother’s strained features as she begged him to ‘be good’ or to ‘not cause any more trouble’.

Really, he was doing them all a favor by skipping out early.

Though he doubted they'd thank him for it.

Most of his things had already been packed into a single large cardboard box on his bed where they'd just been waiting for him to tape it shut and send it on its way.

They’d probably think he was being selfish by leaving it for them to do.

They might not even be wrong about that.

But touching that box had seemed like it would be accepting his sentence as something he agreed with, something he _deserved_ and he just… couldn’t.

Either way, he probably wouldn’t have to hear about it.

They hadn’t bothered to call or visit while he was in detention, he couldn’t imagine that changing now that he’d been exiled to Tokyo.

But maybe that was for the best too.

It wasn't as if they'd ever been particularly good at pretending at happy family to begin with.

The train was crowded, packed tight with commuters and tourists and noisy kids in school uniforms that laughed too damn loud at jokes that probably weren't half as funny as they pretended they were.

He could have been one of them if he'd just minded his own business.

_Maybe._

Or maybe he would always have ended up here one way or another regardless of what he did or didn't do that day.

Maybe not a delinquent, but something like it.

Banished to the fringes of society.

He'd thought about that a lot when he’d been staring up at the bend of the plain featureless ceiling of his cell, but he’d never really come to any kind of meaningful conclusion about it.

He'd never know for sure.

But at least this way he could live with himself.

He wasn’t sure he could have lived with himself if he’d been the kind of person to stand by and do nothing.

The kind of person who just kept walking when he saw trouble on the horizon.

He got lucky a few stations down the line as a seat opened up by a window in the back of one car, somehow overlooked or ignored by the rest of the crowd. He'd thrown himself into it, tucking his bag beneath the seat, ignoring the dirty look he received from the old woman in the seat beside him. He could handle a few dirty looks if it meant the didn’t have to stand all the way to Shinagawa.

Across the way, there was a boy his own age fast asleep, leaning against the window, his mouth open and his light brown hair falling to obscure his face where it was turned in against the cool of the window arms wrapped around his briefcase like he expected it to make a run for it.

He was pretty sure he was drooling, but it was tough to tell for sure.

Either way it made him smile.

It felt like it had been a really long time since he’d felt like smiling about anything.

Maybe this move would prove to be a good thing… even if it was happening for a shitty reason.

He pulled his knees up against his chest and let his head fall back against the headrest.

Outside the rain-streaked window was only the darkness of the underground, broken only occasionally by the dim safety lights of the tunnels through which they passed.

Eventually the safety lights gave way to city lights which in turn gave way to the grey dim of the countryside. Endless fields and anonymous lights floating out beyond the splash and trail of raindrops falling across glass.

At some point, he slept.

The exhaustion of long months of broken sleep pulling him down into a restless slumber.

Perhaps he dreamt, but it was nothing that stuck with him when he was startled awake some time later by the familiar clang of a guard’s baton against the bars. Instinct sent him rocketing to his feet, but it was the sway and break of the train’s motion that had him wobbling off balance as memory of the detention center gave way to the reality of the crowded train. Brakes squealed somewhere in the distance and before he could think to do something to prevent it, he was falling, momentum carrying him forward into the seat across from him and the lap of the person sitting in it.

And for an instant the world seemed to freeze around him, mortification flushing his skin hot with embarrassment, and then the person he’d landed on was shoving him away with a ragged burst of sound that was almost a snarl: “Get off.”

It took him a second to process the demand, the whine of panic laced through the rage of those words, and the hands pressing almost frantically at his shoulders, his chest. Once he did he scrambled backwards, falling down to the floor of the aisle in a pile of uncoordinated limbs, his backpack somehow tangled around his feet though he was certain he’d tucked it safely away when he’d first sat down.

“Sorry, I…” he managed, breathless, staring up at the wild-eyed boy who was glaring down at him like he was gum to be scrapped off a shoe. It sent a shiver up his spine and left him reaching frantically for an excuse, _any_ excuse for his behavior that didn't make him feel like he had the word ‘criminal’ stamped across his forehead, but nothing came to mind.

For a moment, the boy above him just stared down at him, eyes narrowed as he took in his scruffy shoes and second-hand clothes. It seemed like he was breathing just as hard as he was and his gaze still seemed a bit too wide, but other than that his face was calm, almost serene until the moment his lips quirked just the tiniest bit.

It was such a weird, smug, self-satisfied look. Like he’d sized him up and found him desperately wanting.

It kind of pissed him off especially when it disappeared in the next moment, washed away beneath a veneer of polite inquiry so thin he could still hear the disdain in his voice as he asked: “Are you all right?”

“Yeah, sorry I fell on you,” he replied, whatever sincerity the words might have had dying a quick and certain death on his tongue.

It wasn’t like he wasn’t used to people looking at him like that- even people his own age- but it still made him want to lash out, demand to know what was so bad about him, so wrong, even knowing how little such efforts would accomplish.

What was the point in getting so worked up over some jerk he’d never see again?

He snorted a laugh and shook his head, barely registering the surprise on the other boy’s face as he clamored to his feet feeling annoyed and considerably less sorry and embarrassed than he’d been only moments before.

To add the cherry atop the shit sundae that his day had become, he turned back to his vacated seat to find some asshole with a briefcase and an expensive smartphone had slipped in and stolen it while he'd been busy picking himself up off the floor.

The man tapped away on his phone, dutifully ignoring the glare settled upon his downturned head.

_Classy._

He looked like the sort who’d probably raise a stink if he called him on it too or at the very least deny it and insist he’d been sitting there all along.

A quick glance around at the way everybody else in the car seemed to be very intently minding their own business made it abundantly clear who'd end up thrown off the train for causing a disturbance if it came down to it.

He stooped down to snatch his backpack off the ground, glasses slipping down as nose as he pulled his foot free of the straps with quick, jerky rage-fueled movements.

Three months worth of sleepless nights and the adrenaline of the fall was catching up to him to beat a heavy drumbeat of discomfort through his temples, to set the blood in his veins to boil.

Such bullshit.

This was all such _bullshit_.

The world wavered around him for a moment, pulsing in time with the frantic beat of his heart.

It was almost funny how every time he thought he'd finally resigned himself to the way things were, something happened to make some small tenacious part of him begin to rail against the idea.

He was on his way to a new town, a new school, a new _world,_ but it was really just more of the same.

Just another addition to the already steep pile of misfortune that was his day, his year, his _life_. He shook his head, snorting out another sour laugh at the whole sorry situation as he climbed back to his feet, slung his backpack over his shoulder and pushed his glasses back up his nose.

Then, as if summoned by his laughter, an arm reached across the space his head had recently vacated to tap gently against the cell phone that had stolen his seat, “Pardon the intrusion, sir, but I believe this seat is taken.”

The voice that spoke was calm, gently cajoling and absolutely _nothing_ like the snarling irritation of moments ago.

He had to look at him just to be sure it was the same person.

It was.

Same chestnut brown hair, same perfect skin, same huge brown eyes, and absolutely still dressed like something out of a catalog labeled ‘Ideal Son Model ST4267’. He even still had that same metal briefcase tucked into the seat beside him, one gloved hand resting against it possessively.

It was really only his expression that was truly different.

Friendly, congenial, apologetic, and almost _painfully_ earnest.

It was downright _eerie_.

Cell phone man glanced up, eyes narrowed in irritation at the interruption.

There was a flash of sudden light and then the voice was speaking again, still as gentle and cajoling as before, but beneath the words there was an edge. Something sharp and hard that demanded compliance and promised swift retribution. A hint of the smug bastard who'd been looking down at him with something like satisfaction just moments before.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Cell phone man snapped, irritation fading beneath an obvious surge of uncertainty.

The Stepford boy seemed vaguely surprised by the question, his lips turning down in the slightest of frowns, sincerity dripping from every word like poison,“Oh, I apologize, perhaps I should have asked permission before taking your picture. I _do_ apologize, that was a terrible oversight on my part. I just can't seem to help myself when I witness such petty injustice. Pushing someone over in an attempt to steal their seat on the train? You really should be _ashamed_ of yourself.”

That hadn't been quite what had happened, but it seemed rude to interrupt the show. Besides, he was reasonably certain his erstwhile defender was perfectly aware of the facts.

“As to the picture,” he continued, looking somehow even more apologetic than before. “I like to document all my trips and I’ve just returned from Hamamatsu. Unfortunately, as I was there for personal reasons, I didn't really have much to write about for my case blog this time so- when I witnessed such crass behavior- I thought perhaps I might instead post about such an obvious lack of basic etiquette and human kindness. It's obviously not quite up to my usual standards as it pertains to case logs and crime fighting technique, but I think this sort of social commentary might play well with my audience nonetheless. Don't worry, I'll be sure to leave your name out of it, if you chose to give it to me. Though I'm afraid I will need to post this picture to illustrate my point if you still refuse to return what you've so unfairly stolen.”

The man’s face was flushed red as a boiled lobster as he stood abruptly and pushed past him, almost sending careening back across the aisle a second time. Fortunately he was better prepared this time and able to brace a hand against the ceiling overhead to steady himself before slipping back into his now empty seat.

The boy across from him offered him a wan smile and a slight incline of his head before he crossed one leg over the other and turned his gaze to the window and the night beyond.

“Thanks for that,” he commented, though he was pretty sure that smile had been meant to be the end of things, a brisk and efficient dismissal. “And sorry again for falling on you like I did.”

“Ah, yes, well, you startled me and I was…” He trailed off, glancing back at him briefly before offering an elegant shrug as if the words to describe his behavior escaped him in much the same way he’d found himself lacking a ready excuse for his earlier tumble. “Less than gracious,” he finished finally, “It was the least I could do.”

Downright _eerie_.

It was like he was a completely different person.

“Have you ever seen Invasion of the Body Snatchers?”

“I- what?”

His eyes got so wide when he was startled, saucers beneath brimming tea cups.

“The movie? Invasion of the Body Snatchers? Not the shitty remake or even the pretty good remake, but the original one. The Don Siegel one? Have you seen it?”

“No, I don’t… _why_ are you asking?” His voice was still perfectly pleasant, the only sign of frustration appearing in the way his fingers curled against his knees, a subtle tell.

He shrugged amiably, slumping down in his chair, a careless smile curving his lips, “You just made me think of it.”

“What.”

The word was bitten out through clenched teeth.

There it was again.

It was like watching a egg hatch.

Watching the delicate shell fall away to reveal something moving just beneath the surface, just out of sight, gleaming and dangerous like the first hint of scales shimmering in the sun.

If it were fully revealed, it might be nothing more sinister than a baby chick, but in its half-hidden state it seemed as if it might just as soon be something vicious and terrible waiting to rip his throat out for daring to urge it from its hiding place.

It really was a terrible habit.

And almost certainly a sign of a deeply flawed character.

This irresistible desire to pluck at loose threads.

To worry at holes.

Pick at scabs.

To step into situations that probably weren’t any of his damn business.

He’d probably never learn his lesson about just leaving well enough alone.

Wasn’t even sure if he wanted to.

“I’m sorry, I don’t believe I caught your name?” The pleasant boy across from him inquired, his voice rattle soft as he offered him a winning smile, cheerful with just the faintest edge of self-deprecation as if he was embarrassed to be as charming as he pretended to be.

As if sugar wouldn't melt in his mouth.

The mask was firmly back in place as if it had never slipped at all, and he was using that same cajoling, gentle voice he’d used earlier with the man who’d stolen his empty seat.

But he could still see the darkness moving behind his eyes, the careful considering gaze that made him feel like a bug being slowly crushed beneath the weight of a microscope. It made his stomach flip like he'd just looked down to find himself balancing on a tightrope a thousand feet in the air.

_Dangerous._

There was something undeniably, inescapably _dangerous_ about this pleasant boy.

“Tell me yours and I’ll tell you mine,” he replied easily, pushing the sleeves of his shirt up to his elbows and turning his hands over, spreading his fingers wide to convey he didn't have any intention of tricking him.

As expected, the gesture went over like a lead balloon.

That deliberately pleasant smile wilted at the edges like dying flowers, the twitch at the corner of his eye returning with a vengeance. His expression was still pleasant enough, but something about that twitch made him feel like if they'd been alone, he might just have climbed into his seat and wrapped his hands around his neck... and that should have not been _nearly_ as interesting a prospect as it seemed to him in that moment. “Why?”

“I don’t have any friends and I wouldn’t mind making one.”

“I can’t say I’m surprised you have no friends,” he sniffed, lips quirking into a lopsided smirk. “You don’t seem a very pleasant person.”

His stomach was full of fish, a fresh catch still squirming and flipping about, desperate for oxygen, “I suppose not. Of course, neither do you.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about. I am an _incredibly_ pleasant person,” he lied through his straight white teeth.

He wanted to lick them.

To climb into his seat and lick the lies right out of his mouth to see if they tasted vile or sweet.

He really needed to pull it together.

Clearly the stress of the last few months had managed to rattle something loose in his _brain_.

Shoving his tongue uninvited into some stranger’s mouth on a crowded train was probably a really terrible way to begin any kind of relationship, much less the friendship he'd been angling for.

“That's a shame,” he sighed instead, shoving aside those thoughts as he closed his eyes and settled back into his chair. Exhaustion was still heavy in his chest, his head, it made him feel strange, reckless, “I think the asshole who was ready to toss me off the train for falling on him was way more interesting.”

Silence was his only answer and eventually he drifted back to sleep.

He dreamt of blue rooms, of shadows and pod people and the clang of a baton against prison bars.

He woke slowly, his head filled with sludge, his tongue swollen and thick in his mouth.

_Thirsty._

There's a hand wrapped loosely around his wrist.

It reminds him of his parents’ cat.

The light, careful warning of her paws pressing against his arm when she was demanding attention, as if the careless scratch of neatly clipped nails against his inner wrist carried the same threat of claws.

“You should wake up. We’ll be arriving in Tokyo soon,” the soft, pleasant voice commented.

He opened his eyes to find him looking at him intently, mask firmly in place but for the intensity of his gaze. His smile was polite and prefunctory and he released his hold on him the moment he moved to sit up.

It was probably just as well.

They were nothing more than strangers with a common destination, after all.

His neck ached, stiff from falling asleep at a strange angle. He rolled his head back and forth, but it did little to help ease the pain.

He could feel the force of his attention - heavy as a blanket thrown over his head and weirdly just as successful at making him forget about the crowded train beyond them - as he bent down and unzipped his backpack, fishing around for the water bottle he’d bought at the station. That attention didn’t waver as he found the bottle and took a drink, didn’t fail in the slightest even as he took his time tucking the bottle back into his bag and the bag back under his seat.

It felt expectant and when he finally glanced up to meet his stare, he found him frowning at him as if he was a puzzle he couldn't quite solve.

There was something satisfying about being looked at like that.

“Thanks for waking me,” he offered uncertainly, not quite sure what else to say.

He looked a little startled by that, though whether it was because of the thanks or something else, he wasn’t sure.

 _Definitely weird_ , he thought, smiling to himself as he turned to look out the window. The night didn’t seem nearly as dark with the bright lights of the city in the distance growing brighter with each passing moment as they rocketed ever closer to their final destination.

“I have seen it,” he said out of nowhere drawing Akira’s attention away from the window once more.

He looked so expectant that it made him feel like kind of an asshole for not immediately knowing what the hell he was talking about. His confusion must have shown in his expression, because in the next moment he was smiling wryly and offering an explanation.

“The movie you mentioned, I have seen it.”

 _Ah_.

“Have you?”

“Yes, it’s about people being replaced by emotionless versions of themselves, right?” He replied sounding for all the world as if he’d read a summary online.

“Are you sure you didn't just look it up on your phone to make sure I wasn't insulting you?”

He’d meant it just as a tease, but his cheeks had instantly flushed with color, his eyes widening in the most obvious put-on he’d ever _seen_.

“Of course not,” he scoffed, his voice working overtime to convey maximum bewilderment. “Why in the world would I do something like _that_?”

 _Why?_ He had no idea, but he absolutely had.

Why not just let it drop?

Was it a matter of pride?

Did he really just want an excuse to ask him why he’d brought it up in the first place?

Whatever the reason… it was kind of… interesting.

 _He_ was kind of interesting.

And _weird_.

 _Definitely_ weird.

The decision to play along, to see where this was going, what he wanted, was an easy one.

“Sorry, you’re right. I was trying to make a joke. Obviously my sense of humor needs work. So, do you like it?”

“Oh, I, um, that is I don’t remember it very well. I was quite small when I saw it, you see.”

“Were you?”

“Quite. Why did you ask me if I’d seen it?”

“Maybe I was just making conversation.”

And there was the twitch again, just a barely visible.

“It didn’t seem like an idle question.”

“So, you like science fiction?”

“Not particularly,” he replied, fingertips pressed so hard against his briefcase that he was kind of surprised he hadn't yet accidentally snapped them off. “I don't have very much time for such frivolous diversions these days. I suppose I liked it well enough when I was young.”

“What'd you like?”

“Godzilla, mostly.”

“Me too. Which was your favorite?”

“The original, I suppose,” he sighed, his frustration starting to bleed into his voice.

"See, I always liked Mothra vs. Godzilla best."

"I haven't seen that one."

“That's too bad. It's really good. School keep you busy?”

“Quite. I also have a job that takes up much of my limited free time.”

“Isn't that kind of frowned upon?”

“My school doesn't have any rules prohibiting it.”

“And your parents?”

That pleasant smile turned brittle again, “That’s never been an issue for me.”

He wanted to ask. So badly. Instead he merely nodded as if that answer satisfied, “What do you do?”

“Would you like to guess?”

There it was again, that whisper of danger, that peek beneath the mask.

“Stunt driver,” he answered gamely.

It surprised a laugh out of him, high and a little obnoxious and strangely endearing, “What about me makes you think that?”

“That a no?”

“No,” he replied, still chuckling, “not a stunt driver.”

“Day care attendant?”

“No, I’m actually terrible with children.”

“Are you?”

“Don't believe me?”

“I haven't decided yet. So that's a 'no' to day care attendant?”

“I'm afraid so.”

“IT specialist?”

“I'm decent with computers, but I’d hardly call myself a specialist.”

“Ghost writer?”

“What would I write?”

“Self-help?”

“Absolutely not,” he replied his smile, taking a turn towards self-deprecating. “I’m a mess.”

“Science fiction? Cookbooks?”

“I suppose I might enjoy the first, but I'd be hopeless at the second.”

“Don't cook?”

“Not really, most of my meals come from the convenience store, I'm afraid.”

“Mine too. Though cup noodles have been known to put in an appearance from time to time.”

His nose scrunched up like he found something particularly odious about the words.

“Not a fan?”

“No.”

“Your loss.”

“You cannot possibly tell me you enjoy them. They taste like cardboard despair.”

“Only if you don't season them properly,” he shrugged.

“Or possibly you just enjoy the taste of cardboard.”

“Or despair, hard to say really.”

“I suppose that's true. I'm not a ghost writer, by the way.”

“I can't imagine you behind a counter.”

“Really? My manners are impeccable. I think I’d be well-suited for work as a clerk if I had the urge.”

“Really? I'm pretty sure you'd kill someone the first time they spilled something and you had to clear up their mess.”

His smile went brittle, fragile as cracked glass, as if any sudden movement might cause it to break and slice them both to pieces, “Do I?”

There was something about that moment that made it feel as if he were balanced at the edge of a precipice, as if what he said next might cause the world to shift on its axis.

“Yeah, you really do,” he answered honestly.

Silence fell between them as he sat back in his seat and turned to stare out the window, the fall of his dark hair obscuring his expression.

_Fuck._

Maybe he should have lied.

Or maybe that distance between them had always been unbridgeable.

It was a weirdly disappointing thought.

Akira sighed, turning to look out the window as well, where the no longer distant lights of Tokyo seemed dim beneath the reflection of the brightly lit car.

It made it look utterly foreign, as if it were a strange unknowable world rather than just another city.

He wondered what his new place would be like, how he would fit within it.

What would his life would look like now that he was a delinquent on probation?

Would it be better than the life he'd led before?

Worse?

Just the same loneliness and monotonous misery with a different view?

In the detention center he’d at least known what to expect from each day.

And before that….

His life had been… very similar if he were honest.

Scheduled, regimented, blocked in by the expectations of authority figures and made bearable only by those small freedoms, those little ways his own desires had pressed against those boundaries, forced them to yield just a little to accommodate the shape of who he was rather than what they expected him to be.

Perhaps one prison was never truly much different from another.

“You asked my name before,” the not-so-pleasant boy commented suddenly, his voice soft, almost uncertain. His gaze - when he glanced over hoping to catch it - was still trained on the city in the distance. “You don't know who I am?”

“Should I?” He answered easily, turning his own gaze back to the window and the lights beyond though it strayed almost instantly to his companion’s pale features reflected in the glass, a blurry vision have hidden by refracted light. “Are you famous or something?”

If he hadn't been watching, he probably wouldn't have noticed the way he flinched at that, as if he’d struck him a casual blow, “Something like that.”

“That's okay. Happens to the best of us,” he replied thinking of his own situation; of his name, his face, splashed across the newspapers in his parents’ house.

He wasn't sure why they’d saved them, but they’d been piled up on a table in the living room when he returned home like the world’s most awkward coffee table book.

The start of a conversation he didn't want to have.

His memory of the last hearing was too fresh. The way they'd looked in the courtroom, the defeated hunch of their shoulders, the way they'd apologized again and again and the hurry with which they'd agreed to his sentence.

As if it was fair.

As if it were a _gift_.

No, that was a conversation he had no intention of having. 

It had been those newspapers as much as anything that had sent him back to his room to shove that haphazard collection of essentials into his bag and sent him running out the door to the station.

He hadn’t been able to _breathe_ in that house with them there.

“Was that really the best you could do?”

He hadn’t realized he’d zoned out until the boy was speaking again, snapping his attention back to reality, “Huh?”

“You were guessing what I do for work,” he reminded him, offering him the kind of smile people gave to small children and idiots.

It made him want to guess the right answer just to spite him.

“Law enforcement.”

His expression didn’t change.

He barely even blinked.

“Do you think so? I assure you, I’m a perfectly normal high school student.”

He removed his gloves slowly, placing them neatly in his lap before shrugging out of his jacket and unbuttoning his sleeves, rolling them carefully up his forearms before spreading his hands out between them in an echo of the gesture he’d used earlier.

_Nothing up my sleeves._

It made him smile as warmth bubbled in his chest like laughter.

Maybe he wasn’t the only one looking for a connection.

He slouched back in his chair, smile still playing over his lips, “So all that about case blogs and crime fighting techniques was just a bluff?”

“Oh, that… well, what do you think? Truth or Lie?”

“Truth. You keep a crime fighting blog?”

“Do I seem the sort?”

“Yeah, you kind of do.”

“Well, I can assure you that I’m not an undercover police officer, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“It wasn’t.”

“What then?”

“I don’t know,” he replied, because he didn’t. He didn’t know what to think of this boy and all his contradictions. “But that guy didn’t seem to doubt you at all which meant he probably knew who you were.”

“But you don’t so I can’t possibly be as well-known as I thought.”

“Maybe,” he shrugged, “I don’t get out much.”

“Don’t you? Interesting.”

“It really isn’t.”

Silence falls between them once more, comfortable this time, as if they’ve simply hit a natural lull in the conversation rather than an ending.

“Justice.”

“What?”

“You asked for a name.”

Akira snorted, leaning back in his chair, “Funny, you don't look like a Justice.”

“Don't I?”

He watched unidentifiable emotions chase across his face like clouds drifting before the moon, shadows there and gone again.

_Justice._

The word only reminds him of the clang of batons against bars, the bang of a gavel, the smug smile of the prosecutor, and the sound of anonymous sobs breaking the silence of each night he’d spent in detention and how they’d also seemed to be coming from a different direction as if the ability to express misery was turn-based.

“Justice isn't nearly as pretty as you,” he answered, soft and serious, the faintest hint of bitter on his tongue.

The boy who called himself Justice laughed and it was like bells shivering in the wind, “That's a particularly jaded take on it.”

“It's been a challenging year,” he replied, smiling. “What's your excuse?”

“It's the only thing I believe in.”

“And you call me jaded.”

“I suppose it takes one to know one, doesn't it?” He replied, smile soft as summer rain, warm and real and he wants to feel it beneath his fingertips as if by touching it he can memorize it and take it with him so that he’ll remember that smile long after his other memories of this boy have been faded by the passage of time.

“I suppose it does,” he answered, keeping his hands safely tucked between his knees.

Still, there was something about him that made him want to be brave, daring, made him want to do whatever it took to keep him talking, to keep the conversation going, to postpone the inevitable.

Finally he leaned forward, pushing his glasses up further on his nose even though they didn't truly need the nudge.

“You can call me Joker,” he offered, pitching his voice low.

It should feel silly.

Somehow it doesn’t.

“Why Joker?” The boy called Justice asked, his nose wrinkling a bit in confusion.

He could have told him that they'd started calling him that on his second day in detention.

But it would probably spoil everything.

He had picked a name like Justice, after all, and with that case blog… he wasn’t certain what to think. He either had an extraordinary sense of irony or his family was in law enforcement or maybe he was just really into detective novels, it was impossible to say for certain and he had no intention of messing up the first semi-normal conversation he'd had with anyone in months.

And the fact that he'd just thought that probably said a lot for what his year had been like since there wasn't really anything in this conversation that anyone else would consider normal.

“Makes about as much sense as Justice,” he shrugged instead, keeping the truth tucked away behind his teeth.

A quirk of a smile, like curdled milk, “I suppose that's true.”

“Tell me three things about yourself.”

“Just three?”

“That's the game. Three things. Two lies, one truth.”

“Ah, I see, and then you would do the same, I assume?”

“Sure.”

“Anything at all?”

“Yup, it can be as lame and impersonal as you like.”

He chuckled a little at that, smiling again though the expression didn't quite reach his eyes,“You don't think I have any deep dark secrets to confess?”

“I wouldn't say that, but you don't strike me as the sort to confess them to a random stranger.”

“Is anyone likely to do that?”

“Beats me.”

“Fine. Hm, I like dark coffee, late night television and the only thing I actually know how to cook are pancakes.”

“Just pancakes?”

“No, I can follow directions just fine so I’m certain I can cook many things.”

“Ah, so you like dark coffee then?”

“What you don't think I enjoy late night television?”

“And waste what precious little free time you have?”

“Point taken. I do enjoy coffee. Perhaps more than I should.”

“Is that possible?”

“It’s a bit of an expensive vice.”

“Your job doesn’t pay well?”

“It pays well enough,” he replied, which seemed an answer directly adjacent to ‘none of your fucking business’ based on the sheer brightness of the smile that went with it.

He let it go and made an offering of his own: “I once caught six fish in a single day. I took ballet lessons until I was twelve and my glasses are entirely for show.”

“You like to fish?” He sounded so puzzled when he said it as if the very concept that someone might enjoy such a thing was completely beyond him that he found himself laughing.

“It's _relaxing_.”

“Is it?” As if he was looking for the lie.

“It can be. You should try it sometime.”

“Do you think so?”

“Sure, why not?”

“I think I might look quite foolish. I haven't the least idea what to do.”

“Just bait the line and drop it in the water, remember to keep a good grip on your rod and reel it in if you get a bite. Not much to it beyond that.”

“So you say,” he replied, doubtfully. “I enjoy history and English, but I’m terrible at math.”

“No one likes history.”

That slim, quirky smile again, the weird one that looked so real when compared to all the rest, “I suppose that was an easy one.”

“It was. Though it’s difficult to believe you’re terrible at math.”

“It’s true. I don’t have the patience for it at all.”

“Really?”

“Truly.”

“Next station: Shinagawa.”

Akira blinked up at the ceiling in confusion certain he'd misheard even as the announcement sounded again.

Somehow it seemed like it should have taken longer.

He sighed, glancing back at his companion to find he was checking the latches on his briefcase and straightening his clothing. “Are you switching at Shinagawa Station as well?”

“I am,” he replied, smiling that wan, apologetic smile. “It seems we’ll have to cut our game short.”

“It’s fine, I need to switch over to the Yamanote Line. I’m heading to Shibuya.”

“That’s an interesting coincidence. So am I.”

“Then I guess we’ll be together a little while longer yet.”

“I suppose so,” he replied, that pleasant mask making it impossible to tell if he were pleased or irritated by the idea as he stood and sidled out into the aisle, apologizing softly as he moved to each person he passed.

They slipped into the aisle and filed slowly through the standing crowd towards the doors.

“You reminded me of it,” Akira commented as they came to a stop together next to the nearest set of doors. 

“Hm?” He replied distractedly, as he fiddled with his phone, tapping out a message with his thumbs.

The train’s brakes squealed a little and they swayed together as the brakes slammed harder and the boy who’d called himself Justice was thrown off-balance, colliding with his chest even as he reached up to catch hold of a strap to keep them both from falling. He set a hand against his waist to hold him steady, a little surprised when he made no immediate move to jerk away.

“Okay?”

“I’m fine,” he didn’t quite snap the words, but it was close. He slipped the phone back into his pocket, “Sorry. What were you saying? About me reminding you of something?”

“Invasion of the Body Snatchers. It was the way you were acting,” he murmured, leaning forward so he could whisper the words against the fall of his hair. “The pretense. You said all the right words and made the right gestures in the right tone of voice, but the feeling just wasn’t there. It makes me think you’re not what you’re pretending to be.”

“Then who am I?” He asked, shifting his head to the side, expression still hidden from view even as his hair brushed soft against his chin, his lips.

He smelled clean and crisp, the way sour apples tasted, “I don’t know, but I’d like to.”

He turned at that and there was nothing of that pleasant facade in his face now. His eyes seem darker than they had before and when he speaks, he’s close enough that he can feel the warmth of his breath against his face, “If you tell me your name, you might find out more than you ever wanted to know.”

It felt like a dare.

The soft automated feminine tones of the overhead announcement rang out again announcing their arrival at Shinagawa Station as the train slowed, reminding them to mind their step.

The train ground to a stop and for a moment they were pressed so close that he could feel the brush of his lips against his cheek. It would have been the simplest thing in the world to turn into him, to brush their lips together, brief and unseen in the distraction and crush of the crowd around them, but he didn’t.

Instead he stepped away, swallowing the desire down and hitching his backpack up onto his shoulder.

“Kurusu Akira,” he says in a rush, because he can't help himself. Maybe all his decisions are terrible, but if there was one thing that the past few months had taught him it’s that he can’t be anyone but himself and he doesn’t want to be either.

Whatever the cost.

So, he smiles as if it doesn’t hurt when the brief flare of surprise darkens with realization, “I guess this is goodbye then, huh? See you around, Justice.”

The crowd had already begun moving towards the exit so it doesn't look like a retreat to turn and move with them, to just let the flow of traffic propel him out into the unfamiliar station and along into the central corridor.

It isn’t difficult to find a map, to use the signs to navigate his way through the station to the correct platform.

He doesn’t have to even really think about it.

Or anything else for that matter.

He’s waiting on the outer platform for his train to arrive when he sees him step up beside him, briefcase held neatly in front of him.

For long moments there is only silence between them, but it doesn’t last.

“Akechi,” he offers quietly, gaze trained straight ahead across the empty tracks as if he’s speaking to himself. “Akechi Goro.”

The name sounds vaguely familiar, but he has no idea where he’s heard it before or if he even really has.

He laughs, a weird bitter twist of sound, still not quite looking at him, “You really don’t know who I am, do you?”

“Did you think I did?”

“Most people do,” he murmured, words almost lost beneath the murmur of the crowd, the announcements echoing across the station. “Even the ones who lie and say they don’t. But you’re not a liar, are you, Kurusu-kun? Just a joker.”

“Everyone is to one extent or another, aren’t they?”

“A joker or a liar?”

“A bit of both, probably.”

“Jaded.”

“Realistic.”

The air stirred around them with the rumble of the oncoming train growing louder by the moment.

He felt a hand against the small of his back, a firm, steady pressure just below the weight of his backpack.

It felt like goodbye.

“It was nice talking to you, Akechi Goro,” he sighed, glancing down the tunnel towards the shine of headlights against the curve of the wall that signaled the train’s imminent arrival.

“Was it?”

“Yeah, it really was.”

The train blew his hair back as it passed them by and the firm press of Akechi’s hand against his back had vanished by the time the doors of the car slid open before them.

They stood together silently on the crowded train. Not quite close enough to touch or close enough that anyone would think they even knew each other, but close enough that it was easy to fall into step with him when they both spilled out onto the platform at Shibuya Station.

“I'm heading to Yongen-Jaya, so I'm this way,” he commented as he caught sight of a sign overhead pointing him in the right direction.

“Then I believe this is where we part ways, Kurusu-kun.”

“I guess so.”

Still they lingered as if neither of them wanted to be the first to force the inevitable end of their time together.

“Don't suppose you'd be interested in getting coffee sometime?” He asked, even though he was pretty sure he already knew the answer.

“I…” Akechi hesitated, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth briefly before finally shaking his head. “I don't think that will be possible.”

Akira laughed, nodding his head and glancing away towards his platform as if doing so might hide his disappointment, “Right. You're very busy.”

“I am,” Akechi agreed, “though I won't insult you by pretending that's the reason.”

“Well, I can't fault you for being honest, can I?” He replied, shaking his head and hitching his backpack more firmly onto his shoulder as he turned away. “It’s not pleasant, but you should still try to do it more often, it really is a nice look on you. Take care of yourself, Akechi Goro.”

“Yes, I will. I… really did enjoy meeting you, Kurusu Akira.”

He sounded so sincere when he said that it made the rejection of moments before sting all the more.

He waved a hand back over his shoulder as a final farewell before shoving his hands into his pockets and walking away to face whatever life awaited him in Yongen-Jaya.

He didn’t look back, but he was certain he felt the weight of that heavy gaze long after it should have turned away.

**Author's Note:**

> UPDATED 1/29: If you're in the mood to read more of this, there's an Akechi counterpoint called [An Honest Adversary](http://archiveofourown.org/works/13422912). Feel free to check it out if you're into that sort of thing. ^_^
> 
> I've obviously assumed that Akechi would have been used to tie up the loose ends associated with Kurusu's legal troubles pre-game, because it seems like a reasonable leap. He wouldn't have been able to succeed due to the location of Mementos, but I think an attempt would have been made. Plus, obviously, Akechi was no stranger to just outright killing folks. (Which is really just a long way of saying: I'm just going to twist canon to suit my sinister plans and that's just what's happening here.)
> 
> Also, it makes sense to me that Kurusu would have spent time in detention prior to his hearing. I assumed that since Shido is a real of son of a bitch he would have arranged for Kurusu to be held for a lengthy period of time. So between his initial holding period and multiple hearings, I've decided he was probably in detention for a total of three months. 
> 
> I checked around a bit and no one had a definitive answer as to where Kurusu is actually from except that it is almost certainly not Inaba so I just rolled with Hamamatsu as it looked about right for the short scenes we see of his hometown and it was a reasonable distance from Tokyo.
> 
> Also, my Kurusu is a film dork and he loves science fiction because *reasons*.
> 
> Set this up as a series rather than an ongoing because I'm sure I'll write more on this premise as inspiration strikes, but this story is complete as is.
> 
> You can catch me on tumblr - if you're into that sort of thing - as [midnight-run-amok](https://midnight-run-amok.tumblr.com/).


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